Your Humble Scribe

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Drove down to the Metroplex yesterday to meet up with JPG, Holly and Peter for some gunny goodness. Walked into the house fashionably late, but early enough to be introduced to Phlegmfatale.

Ladies and gentlemen, Phlemmy is every bit as sweet and enchanting in person as she is on her blog.

To my further astonishment, I learned that La Phlegm has never, ever been to a gun show. That oversight has now been corrected.

Of course, everyone knows that it is Bad Juju to leave your first ever gun show without buying anything, so a holster and a proper belt were acquired.

On a side note, both local and cyber folks have been foreseeing a rush on Evil Black Rifles in regards to the upcoming National election.

Hah!

I walked all around that show with Peter's Evil Black Assault Rifle over my shoulder and came up with less than a paw-full of inquiries regarding my willingness to sell and price. And I'm relatively sure that at least half of the inquiries weren't really serious.

Let's face it, folks -- if nobody's interested in a never-fired Russian VEPR in .223 with six unused 40- round magazines being sold by a gentlemen with a charming South African accent -- it would seem that no one's really worried about The End Of The World As We Know It.

*snort*

Hell, I would have bet even money that 15 seconds after a snitch heard the words "Russian", "Assault" and "Rifle" in one of them furrin' accents, we'd've been at the bottom of an ATF scrum.

*sigh*

ATF must be slacking off.

Anyhoo, much discussion was had, much good food consumed and a generally Good Time was had by all.

Monday, March 24, 2008

One of the telling quotes to that sad tale is found about half-way down the article. It is from a Georgia Bureau of Investigation officer in response to the discovery that Meredith had not only struggled with her murderer, but when he asked for her ATM PIN number, she repeatedly gave him wrong numbers -- the quote is:

"That's one thing that broke my heart in this case," Bridges said. "She was doing everything she was supposed to do to stay alive, and we didn't get there in time."

Allow me to repeat the salient point: "She was doing everything she was supposed to do to stay alive"

That is incorrect.

Meredith Emerson did not do "everything she was supposed to do"

What she did was what forty years of liberal doublethink, forty years of pansy-arsed hippie empathy and guilt; and several decades of deliberate victim mentality systematically foisted onto the population in general and women in particular by the government and ivory-tower feel-good "intellectual" panty-waists have unilaterally decided that women are supposed to do.

In a just and sane world, Meredith Emerson would have been told from early girl-hood that she was expected to defend herself from unlawful force.

In a just and sane world, Meredith Emerson would have been taught not to fear firearms, but to accept them as tools for her defence.

In a just and sane world, Meredith Emerson would have grown up in a culture that supported her right to self-defence and a culture that promoted such.

In a just and sane world, Meredith Emerson would have been able to pick the firearm that best suited her without fear of arrest or sanction; and she would have been able to carry said firearm where and whenever she felt the need without some snot-nosed sanctimonious busybody drenching their knickers over that simple act.

In a just and sane world, Meredith Emerson would have been supported by state and Federal governments that would have allowed, abetted and encouraged her training with firearms.

In a just and sane world, when Gary Michael Hilton stepped out of the undergrowth with a bayonet and a baton, Meredith Emerson would have produced a .38 and centre-punched his rotten heart out through his spineless back.

Gary Michael Hilton is the rapist and murderer of Meredith Emerson.

The State and Federal Governments who consistently pass stupid and illogical firearms laws; the Brady Bunch who continue to parrot the foul and malicious lie that "Only the military and police need guns"; Hollywood's sanctimonious assertation that "Violence is never the answer", "Guns are a red-neck thing", and "Women will only get hurt by guns"; not to mention societies acceptance of the Cult of Victimhood to the point where said Cult is a gods-be-damned State Religion -- each and every one of these is an unindicted co-conspirator to the crimes that took this young ladies life.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

One of the little family traditions that we do involves Easter and my little sister.

Every year, Mom mails Boo an Easter basket. These baskets have all the normal trappings of baskets of this kind, save only that the before sending it to Boo, Mom will bring the chocolate bunny to either Chris or myself, so that we may bite the ears off.

Heh.

When my little sister was younger -- I think she was probably seven or eight -- Nana asked her if she was looking forward to the Easter Bunny visiting.

Boo replied that the Easter Bunny was all very well, but that she was afraid that since we weren't "home" -- overseas -- she wondered if the Easter Squirrel would be able to find us.

Nana figured this was one of those ideas that children get, assured her that the Easter Squirrel was very diligent in that kind of thing and sent Boo off to play.

Early -- early, early -- that morning, Mom got up to get a drink of water, when she noticed Chris pad down the hall in his pajamas. Slightly curious as to what her junior son was up to that early, Mom followed him to the living room, where she observed Chris -- as he had done every year since he could walk -- fastidiously, and with a great deal of care, nibbled the ears off of every chocolate bunny within reach before wandering back to bed.

Mom, of course, was mightily concerned about how her other two children would react to this chocolate pilferage, and resolved to awaken early and attempt to find replacement bunnies.

This, however, was rendered unnecessary when Boo woke up the entire house later by dashing into each bedroom, hair flying, mutilated chocolate figure held firmly in both hands, warbling at the top of her lungs, "The Easter Squirrel came! The Easter Squirrel came!" before shoving the afore-mentioned chunk of chocolate under our noses as proof.

You know -- a chocolate bunny sans ears does kind of resemble a squirrel, truth be told.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

I had intended to spend today sitting on a shore, drowning worms and Contemplating Things, but Mama Nature had other plans.

Yes, Gentle Readers, it's raining like a cow whizzing on a flat rock.

So. Plan B. Chris, Tole and I took the opportunity to steal a page from our misspent youth, drove over to Deepinahearta, and spent the afternoon camped out in a movie theatre.

We saw 10,000 BC first.

Allow me, Gentle Reader, to reach down deep for the exact words to properly describe this move:

Yack.

Yes, I think that fits the bill rather nicely. Be aware that:

HERE BE SPOILERS!

First off, allow me to state that I hate "prophecy". Prophecy as a plot device has been over-used to the point that it left "Hackneyed" laying in the dust several miles back. The mere mention of the word "prophecy" in a movie is more than enough reason for me to hit the "eject" button, climb into the DogMobile, drive all the way back to the movie rental store and demand my money back.

And, you know, bad as I hate "prophecy", Chris hates it even worse. I'm talking immediate use of the DVD as a skeet target, longships manned, monasteries getting burned down, pillaging, burning, rioting, crushing, driving and de vimmen lamenting.

Man has a real mad on when it comes to "prophecy" as a plot device.

Of course, 10,000 BC had not one, but four -- count 'em, four -- prophecies.

In addition to the hackneyed use of a hackneyed plot device, the director and/or writer of this movie maybe didn't pay as much attention during history class as one might expect. Kind of slept their way through geography, too. Not to mention Ag class.

We start out in an idyllic glacier-carved valley full of sodding snow. There is plot development, blah, blah, more plot development -- oh, look! I didn't realize Rob Zombie had a supporting role!

Our peaceful existence as mammoth-hunters is abruptly intruded upon by four-legged demons who raid the village, capturing slaves, setting huts on fire and slaughtering everyone!

The audience, of course, realizes immediately that the "four-legged demons" are horse-riding raiders.

About 6000 years before horses were, you know, domesticated, but what the hell. And their raiding-fu sucks as bad as their chronology, because -- near as I can tell -- the big, bad professional raiding slavers managed to slaughter exactly one person in the village. One.

Amateurs.

Of course one of the handful of captives was the chastely lusted-after putative Schmoopie of Our Hero.

No one saw that one coming.

So -- despite being certain that the raiders were, in fact, you know, demons -- Our Hero and Rob Zombie decide to head out after them with one red shirt for back-up. After telling Pre-Pubescent Amusing Kid that he can't come along.

Over hill we go. Over dale. Surprise! Pre-Pubescent Amusing Kid snuck along! Who the hell saw that one coming?!

Off dale into jungle, where Our Heroes (and Rob Zombie) are attacked by Giant Terror Chickens! Whose remains have only been found in South America, mind you.

Out of the jungle, into savanna! Our hero comes across a sabre-toothed cat and pulls a thorn from its paw helps it out of a trap -- never mind the fact that the only sabre-toothed cat that bloody large in 10,000 BC was an inhabitant of America.

We stumble across one big-arsed river! We recruit allies! We march in circles in one big-arsed desert until Our Hero remembers that the North Star never moves! Huzzah! And we follow Our Hero North -- no, wait. In 10,000 BC, Polaris (the North Star) was actually somewhere closer to the equator. Never mind.

So, we follow ... something .. and we come out of the desert at--

Remember the South American Chickens From Hell? American Fang-faced Cat? Glacier-carved mountains and valleys? Of course you do. So, when we come out of the big-arsed desert, we find --

The Sphinx (carved probably about 2500 BC) and the Great Pyramid (about 2500 BC). Bloody Egypt.

Bet you didn't realize that the great Pyramid was built using woolly mammoths as pack animals, did you?

About that time I gave up all hope. Rob Zombie (the prehistoric mammoth hunter) dispatched three trained soldiers armed with metal weapons (metal-working -- 6000 BC, only four sodding thousand years too early) with a bone spear and apparently a working familiarity with Chinese kung-fu spear technique.

Alas, his prehistoric martial arts teacher neglected lessons on 1) Never Turning Your Back On An Foe; and2) Making Damned Sure The Dead Bastard Is Really Dead.

Of course, Rob's Dying Last Words, instead of being something along the lines of, "Damn it, why didn't I make sure the last one was dead?! I can't believe that I'm dying because I was stupid!" actually were carefully chosen to Inspire Our Hero To Take Up His Destiny. And all that rot.

The alien Bad King got dead by way of a spear thrown by You'll Never Guess Who. The slaves revolt. Miraculously unravaged putative Schmoopie of Our Hero gets dead. The mammoths get freed. As a reward, the mammoths resurrect Schmoopie.

I'm being serious here! It was either the mammoths, or Our Heros tribal shaman back in the village in the glacier carved valley, but one of the two hauled off and resurrected the very dead, got-an-arrow-through-the-back, passed on, no more, metabolic-processes-are-history Schmoopie.

*sigh*

Finally, Our Hero gets to kiss his Schmoopie, many cheers, and Our Hero and Schmoopie get the Grand Send-off back through desert. Savanna. Jungle full of Giant Killer Chickens. Mountains. With a handful of grain -- and sodding corn -- to take back to their valley.

Yes, you read that right -- corn. The sodding locals in sodding Egypt give Our Hero ... corn. In Egypt. In 10,000 BC.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

"On Wednesday, March 19, POG will be holding a torch-lit march to a modern day castle of abominations—our local military recruiting station. If the station remains open, we intend to evict it and everything inside of it, occupy the location, and transform it into something useful for the community. We'll also be bringing a movable cage in which to confine military recruiters until they no longer pose a danger to our friends and neighbors."

Goodness.

The mind boggles.

On one paw, we have a pack of leftist neo-hippies, all proud and happy in their organic hemp clothing, patchouli scent wafting about like a particularly obnoxious smog, fists raised defiantly in their Jamba-Juice fueled outrage.

And on the other paw, we have several United States military recruiters, all graduates of various boot camp and advanced training -- and most with a tour or two of the current war-zones under their belts -- steel fangs politely hidden behind cool smiles and multiple graduate level degrees from the School Of People Who Want To Kill You.

*blink, blink*

Let me get this straight -- you hippie schmucks are going to put these guys in a cage?

Oh, hell -- let me get a large soda and some popcorn going; 'cause this ought to be fun to watch.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Given the articles and material found on this blog, if -- if, I say -- some of it was collected into book form, which articles would you most like to see in this hypothetical book?

"All of them" would not be a helpful answer.

I'm not promising anything -- and I reserve the right to run screaming like a striped-arse ape into a convenient hole and pull it in behind me -- but I promised someone that I'd give the whole "book thing" an honest evaluation.

Friday, March 07, 2008

0900 hours: I am informed that my presence is requested at Bugscuffle County Justice Court, Precinct 1/2. I park my cruiser outside of the TrueValue hardware store in the spot marked by the sign what reads: "Thou Shalt Not Park Here", wend my way past the nail bins, toss a cheery wave to Jimmy Don and scoot up the stairs to the second-floor courtroom.

The sound of a badly-mangled version of a Hank Williams, Junior song lustily warbled at the top of someone's lungs is the first clue I have that things Might Be Interesting.

"Godda shot-rifle, a sumthin' 'n' a four-drive wheel!"

I tap gently on the frosted glass panel of the door, and open it, to find the judge at his desk, elbow planted firmly, chin cradled in hand as he gazes in mild bemusement at what I guess would be the defendant.

Unless it's the guy sitting next to the singer, face cradled in both hands -- but I'm betting he's the lawyer.

"Ah can skin a trot, 'n' run a buck-line!"

I cock an eyebrow at the judge, "I hate it when I skin a trot." The judge snorts, there's a muffled groan from the lawyer, and the court reporter giggles. I grin and sneak a look at her legs before opining, "I'm guessing the defendant ..."

Never taking his chin off his palm, or his gaze off of Breakfast Theatre, the judge whisks a sheet of paper off the desk and hands it to me. It is an Adjudication of Guilt for Public Intoxication and a Commitment Order for five days. It is, I further note, on a PI ticket the Sheriff wrote two weeks ago.

"Ah," sayeth I, "And the subject would be ..."

"Drunker than a waltzing pissant" opines the judge.

"Not to mention ..."

"All of nineteen years old."

"And it's only ..."

"Nine-thirty in the morning."

"Goodness. Should I cite him for Minor in Consumption, or Public Intoxication on the way to the pokey?"

The subject in question promptly -- albeit shakily -- climbs on top of the table and defiantly bellows, "CUZ A CUNK-, CONN-, CONNTREE BOY CAN SHUR-, SHUR, SOMETHIN', DAMMIT!"

The judge ponders this performance for a moment. "Yes."

And we're off.

1115 hours: Meet with Reporting Party concerning a Dangerous Dog.

I pull into a small trailer park on Ranch-to-Market Road 1777. I have the distinct feeling that the man waving the baby parka at me is most probably going to be the Reporting Party.

Upon closer inspection, the baby parka turns out to be an extremely deceased chicken. The owner of the decedent has no doubts as to the cause and perpetrator of the Vile Deed.

"Vicious! Brutal! Da-angerous! I want that hound locked up, or put down -- and somebody's gotta pay!" He is extremely wrought-up, and to avoid getting smacked with a dead chicken I gently remove the carcass from his grip.

"So," I ask, frowning as I notice the scar-tissue from where the rooster's comb had been removed quite some time ago, "Are you sure it's the dog next door?"

"Sure?! Am I sure?! I saw the mutt run into my yard and maul my five hundred dollar prize rooster! Who's going to pay me for my rooster, huh?! Who?"

I raise my hand -- the one not currently occupied with a chicken corpse -- in a 'peace' gesture, "Let me go talk to your neighbor." Without waiting for a reply, I walk to the trailer next door, pausing to look over the back fence belonging to the bereaved chicken owner.

Five other rooster look back at me, all missing their combs and all on six foot lengths of chain that prevent them from touching each other.

Oh-ho, thinks I.

I knock on the door of the trailer occupied by the owner of the rampaging mongrel.

It opens, and I am faced with a very large man, grey hair escaping from under a gimme cap, full grey beard and mustache -- braided with tiny pewter skulls -- black leather vest and knuckle rings on every finger -- all displaying skulls, bones and various incarnations of death worked in pewter.

Oh. Joy.

"Morning, sir. I'm Deputy LawDog, Bugscuffle S.O. and there seems to have been an incident with your dog."

I peer around the old boy, fully expecting to see a rottweiler or a pit-bull, but he interrupts my looking with a slightly --- abashed -- confession.

"It's my fault, really. That damn rooster got up on the yard gnome, and started crowing like to beat anything you ever heard. I went to the door and yelled at it to, 'Git!' and Buster -- well, Buster heard me yellin', and kind of took off and jumped."

"All right, then. Before we go any further, sir, where is Buster? I'd hate for there to be some kind of misunderstanding while I'm talking to you ..."

I suddenly realize that the man has a chihuahua draped across his forearm. Granted, it has a tiny black bandanna with white skulls around its neck -- but it's still a chihuahua. Then, I notice the Spongebob Squarepants band-aid sliding down it's furry foreleg. And fresh blood under the band-aid.

You've got to be ... I point, "Buster?"

Buster wags his tail happily at me.

"Yes, sir, this is my Buster."

I look at the dog. He rolls over on the man's arm to have his belly scritched. I lift the chicken. Seven pounds. Easily. I look at Buster. Not seven pounds. If you stuffed his bandanna with bricks -- five or six pounds. Maybe.

"Now I know that Buster shouldn't'a done killed that chicken. But, it was in his yard, and Buster gets kind of territorial and he kind'a gets mad at the things I get mad at. But I done offered that man a hundred bucks for his chicken -- even though it was in my yard where it had no right to be..."

I hold up a hand, and look at the chicken-slaughtering brute, kicking his back leg in an orgy of bliss as his tummy gets scratched. I walk over to the garden gnome. Well within the property limits. Blood and feathers everywhere.

I return to the chicken owner.

"That's a five-hundred-dollar prize-winning rooster..."

I hold up a hand, forestalling the impassioned speech that's building up steam.

"You're about to lie to me. Again. And that would be unwise."

He looks at me, bottom lip quivering.

"Take the hundred dollars. I found where -- let me speak -- I found where the chicken was killed. It's not even close to your property. You don't want his dog to kill your chickens, keep them off his property. Now, you can insist that I investigate and file a report. If I do so, anything I find during my investigation will be acted upon. As a creative articulation, let's say that I find that someone around here is raising gamecocks for fighting -- well, then, I'd have to act on that. And serving search warrants and seizing everything someone owns because they're involved in a criminal enterprise -- well, that just causes heartburn all the way around."

He looks at me.

I smile.

"Sir," he licks dry lips, "Come to think, a hundred bucks for that chicken is almighty reasonable."

I hand him his dead chicken. "I'll just go deliver the news then."

Buster's owner takes the news with some relief. I look at the chihuahua, dozing happily on the man's arm.

"He doesn't weight as much as the rooster did."

"No, sir, that he don't."

"That rooster had a black-belt in chicken-fu."

"Yes, sir, I reckon he would have to have."

We look at Buster. A slow, proud smile escapes the beard and creeps across the man's face.

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

When it comes to legislative hi-jinks, the Texas State government has never failed to both amuse and disgust -- at the same time, in some instances.

In what other State would you have four State legislators take over the Speakers dais for the purpose of singing "I Had A Dream, Dear" in perfect harmony while over 150 of their buddies were flinging furniture and punching each others lights out?

I am saddened to report that the original Dungeon Master failed his last saving throw this morning.

For those Gentle Readers who may not have heard of this man, E. Gary Gygax was the co-creator of the Dungeons and Dragons role-playing game -- the pencil-and-paper version -- and was probably the father of the whole Role Playing Game industry, both paper and computer versions.

Chris, Tole and I have spent literal ages wandering through various AD&D campaigns over the years, and I credit Dungeons and Dragons with improving not only my imagination, but also my writing skills.

I imagine they've already got the screens set up and the Mountain Dew and chips stockpiled and waiting for you, Gary.

Monday, March 03, 2008

While I was growing up, we lived in several different houses overseas. Without fail, in each of these houses we had enough light.

Each square room had at least one ceiling light fixture, and each rectangular room had a minimum of two ceiling light fixtures. And, my paw to Vishnu, most of these light fixtures must have been bodged together out of discarded C130 landing lights.

When you flicked on the wall switch, you bloody well had light.

Might be the areas I've lived in States-side, but the lack of good general room lighting is really beginning to grate on my nerves.

Friend of moms in Amarillo has a house in which the living room has no ceiling light fixture at all. House I'm in now has one ceiling light at the back end of a rectangular living room.

And it's not getting any better. Some folks are building a series of new houses and I walked in out of curiosity, just to look around. Told the crew boss he left out the ceiling lights in the living room.

Saturday, March 01, 2008

Joint Terminal Attack Controllers -- Battlefield Air Controllers or Forward Air Controllers to the Brits -- can be pretty much described as Air Traffic Controllers From Hell.

Operating in two man teams, JTACs are responsible for all air movement inside the bubble of airspace inside their zone. They plot and co-ordinate air-strikes and air-support missions, assess damage afterwards, dispatch helicopters, ensure that any airframes moving through their zone don't end up sharing immediate space with other aircraft, other aircraft's munitions, or artillery and mortar shells, schedule transports and supply drops.

When the Bad Guys are doing their damnedest to get up under your helmet with you, it's your JTAC who talks to the jet-jockeys to fine-tune their bombs and gives the corrections if second or subsequent passes are required.

It seems that the Joint Tactical Attack Controller known to American, British, Dutch, French and other NATO aircraft operating in Afghanistan by his call-sign of Widow Six Seven was a bit more famous than his mates.

Henry of Wales -- more commonly known as Prince Harry of the English House of Windsor -- has apparently done gone and tied various jihadist knickers into rather intricate knots by the simple means of plotting and conducting multiple air-strikes against Taliban insurgents, performing multiple vehicle and foot patrols in hostile areas, and other types of Killing People And Breaking Their Stuff that is the main purpose of soldiers everywhere -- all under the beards of said local jihadists.

Well, he was up until a bottom-feeding parasite decided that the right of the Drudge Report to make money in advertisement revenue trumped, well, all of Prince Harry's rights -- as well as military OPSEC (OPerational SECurity) amongst other things.

As I sit here -- musing that Harry might as well get used to having the Eve of St Crispin's Day speech from Shakespeare's Henry V recited to him -- I am reminded that in August of 1921, a New York lawyer was stricken with either polio or Guillain-Barre Syndrome, resulting in that lawyer becoming totally and permanently paralyzed from the waist down.

Despite this, the lawyer managed to become elected as Governor of the State of New York -- twice; and was elected as President of the United States of America four times -- the last election during America's involvement in the Second World War.

The man was completely paralyzed from the waist down. He spent most of his time in a wheelchair, and could walk only with the aid of iron braces on his hips and legs and a cane or crutches.

Yet, millions of Americans never knew this. Those Americans who did know, believed that their President had beaten the disease or only had a mild case.

Why was this? Because the American press -- by common, unspoken consent -- never photographed Roosevelt in motion and never revealed that his paralysis was far worse than he let on. He may have been President of the United States, but his paralysis was part of his private life -- and the press respected that.

How far we have come since then, and how much we have changed.

In the 1930's and '40's the entire US press corp keeps mum on how badly the US President is handicapped. Out of respect.

In the early years of the 21st century one US Internet tabloid opens its mush and increases the dangers faced by a single 23-year-old soldier to the point of endangering his squadmates and the troops under his command. Because "the people have a right to know".

Codswallop. Balderdash. Horse. Puckey.

I wonder how many pieces of silver Matt Drudge could buy with the money he made on his "exclusive".